


Hot, Angry Make-Up Sex

by IreneADonovan



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angry Charles, Angry Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles in a Wheelchair, Charles-centric, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Lehnsherr is not a Happy Bunny, Erik has Issues, Fix-It of Sorts, Guilty Erik, M/M, Makeup Sex, Post-Cuba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 14:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: Like it says...





	Hot, Angry Make-Up Sex

May 22, 1963. Six months to the day since Cuba. Six months since Charles Xavier's life had been irrevocably altered. Six months since the love of his life had abandoned him, chosen a darker path, one Charles could not walk with him.

A cruel irony there, one that Charles in his bitterest moments could find the twisted humor in. But not now. Not tonight, as the clock ticked toward midnight and the anniversary that no one in the house would so much as speak of, would barely even allow a stray thought of.

They were all so bloody careful around him. Treated him like something fragile, something broken, which he supposed he was, in a way. Just not quite in the way they thought. Three teenagers on the cusp of adulthood, with the arrogance and invincibility and immortality of youth, to them being paralyzed was a tragedy, a devastating blow, unimaginable and unbearable.

In his darker moments, Charles agreed with them. In moments just slightly more lucid, he knew the damage done to his spine was no more devastating a wound than the one to his heart. He'd loved Erik, still loved Raven, yet they were gone. All he had left was three teenaged boys, a nearly empty house, a broken body, and a shitload of anger and grief.

Just before eleven-thirty, Charles had long since settled himself in bed, but sleep would not come. He sipped pensively at a tumbler of scotch, craving the oblivion that would be granted by the near-full bottle on his nightstand, yet he wouldn't allow himself to yield to that temptation. He had responsibilities now. Fucking obligations.

Not to mention that he'd have to face a lecture from Hank about the now-more-precarious nature of his health was not conducive to getting utterly wasted, a lecture Hank would make sure to deliver while Charles' hangover was in full force.

So three fingers would be it tonight, enough to take the barest edge off, blunt the pain just enough to make sleep possible. Possible, but not probable, not this night.

He glanced at the photo of Raven on the far nightstand, in her blonde guise, frozen forever in mid-laugh. Could she possibly be happy now, waging Erik's war? Charles truly hoped so. He bore her no real ill will for leaving. He'd sought only to protect her, but in doing so had stifled her, appeared to reject her, until she'd believed only in leaving could she truly be free. He could only hope one day she might forgive him.

His thoughts toward Erik were less charitable. He didn't blame Erik for the bullet – it truly had been unintentional – but that didn't mean he wasn't angry. He was. Very, very angry. The man had put a bullet in his spine, then he'd taken Raven and just left. Left him bleeding on the sand, spine shattered, heart ripped to shreds.

He was so caught up in reverie he almost missed it, the faint pinging against the fringes of his telepathy, against the perimeter he'd established at the edge of his range to warn him should anyone from Erik's merry little band or from the CIA head toward Westchester. He set his glass down, stretched his awareness outward, seeking the identity of the intruder.

Just as well he set the glass down; he would have dropped it. It was Erik, sans helmet, driving up the Bronx River Parkway, mind clearly focused on his task and destination, his surface thoughts revealing nothing about his intent once he reached Charles' family estate. But that he was coming alone and helmetless spoke volumes.

He was still perhaps an hour away, and that was good. Charles had time to meet him on his terms. Erik would not know what he had cost Charles, would find he had no reason to linger, and Charles should emerge from the encounter with the hole in his heart still scabbed over.

But he'd need help to prepare. He scanned the mansion, hoping he wouldn't have to rouse anyone. Good – Hank was still awake, down in his lab, mind humming softly as he sketched out designs for the new Cerebro. _Hank? Could you come here? I need your help._

Hank was less than thrilled once he learned what Charles planned, with whom Charles would be meeting, but Charles was insistent. That Erik was coming alone and helmetless spoke well for his intent, and Charles would meet him alone, in his study, on his terms.

He really only needed Hank's help with two things: getting dressed more swiftly than he could manage on his own and moving the wheelchair into the kitchen where it would be less obvious to Erik's metal-sense. Hank helped him dress, but argued all the way down to Charles' study over removing the wheelchair.

“I don't like leaving you trapped,” he protested as Charles transferred to one of the chairs where he and Erik had played chess.

Truthfully, he wasn't thrilled about that himself, but it was necessary. “I'll be fine. And he's getting close – go.”

Hank did, reluctantly.

Charles arranged his legs, trying for a relaxed, casual pose. This wasn't about hiding. Or shame. Maybe he hadn't fully made his peace with his disability, but neither was he ashamed of it. Rather, he knew Erik's guilt would be all-but-overwhelming if he found out, he would choose to stay out of duty, out of obligation, out of penitence, and that was something Charles could not, would not bear.

Erik was outside now, approaching the door. He marched through it, closing it hard enough Charles sent Alex and Sean a quick reassuring thought to help them stay asleep, then another to Hank to quell his new-found protective instincts.

Erik paused in the foyer.

_I'm in my study._

He felt Erik flinch a little at the contact, then a mental grit of his teeth. _On my way._

A minute later, the door swung open and Erik strode in. Erik, not Magneto. No cape, no armor, no helmet, just a man in faded jeans and a chambray shirt. He paused a few feet inside the door, met Charles gaze.

“Hello, my friend,” Charles said with a calm he didn't feel.

“Am I?” Erik asked, the barest tremor in his voice.

“Are you what?”

“Your friend.”

Charles sighed softly. “We've certainly had our differences, yes, and I'm certainly not saying I've forgiven you, but I'd like to think the bond we'd forged hasn't been irretrievably broken.”

Hope flared in Erik's pale, luminous eyes. “Even after all that I've done?”

Charles nodded. “Sit. We can talk.”

Instead, Erik walked to the cellarette and picked up the decanter of scotch. He poured two fingers into one of the matching cut-crystal tumblers, then glanced over to Charles. “Shall I pour you one?”

Charles didn't hesitate. “Please.”

Erik poured a second drink, carried them back. His fingers brushed Charles' as he handed over the tumbler, and Charles felt the electric charge, the magnetic pull of the other man's touch. An old, familiar flutter rippled through him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Erik noticed, damn him, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward, though he said nothing. He took the seat opposite Charles, then took a long swallow of scotch, displaying the smooth columns of muscle along his throat.

Charles' mouth went dry, and he forced himself to look away. He wet his lips with scotch, asked, “Why are you here, Erik?”

“I missed you.”

“Surely that's not the only reason.”

“The only one that matters.”

Damn him. Why did he have to come back now to shatter the fragile peace Charles was just finding, to turn Charles' life upside-down yet again?

Silence loomed between them for several minutes, and Erik was the first to breach it. “I never should have left.”

“No. You shouldn't have.” Charles kept his voice cool, emotionless.

“And I know I have no right to ask you to let me come back.”

“It's not that simple,” Charles said, though a part of him still wished it could be. “We still disagree on far too much. I cannot condone wanton violence.”

“I'm defending our people.”

“No, you're killing everyone who stands in your way.”

“I will not allow our people to be slaughtered.”

“Nor will I,” Charles said. “Surely you know that by now. But I believe we must take the high ground on this.”

“High ground.” Erik snorted. “A perfect place to get surrounded.”

“But also the most easily defensible position.”

Erik fell silent for long moments before asking, “So does this mean there's no chance for us?”

“I always have hope, my friend, but for now it seems we are at an impasse.”

Erik's features has been schooled to calm, but those words caused his façade to crack, the muscles of his jaw twitching. He lifted his glass to his lips, drained it in two long gulps. “Then I won't waste any more of your time.” He stood, crossed to where Charles sat, said, “Goodbye, Charles,” then bent and pressed a farewell kiss to Charles' lips.

Charles' resolve shattered, and he pulled Erik down to him, burying his fingers in Erik's short auburn curls, coaxing his lips open.

Erik's pale eyes went wide, but then he was kissing back, hungry, almost desperate. He dropped to his knees in front of Charles, and those long, strong arms wrapped around his torso in a near-crushing embrace.

They clung together for minutes that felt like hours then reluctantly drew apart. Charles slumped back in his armchair, and Erik sat back on his heels, those ever-changing eyes dazed, stunned, full of desire. “It would seem there's one thing we can still agree on,” he said.

“And a thousand reasons why that cannot be.”

“Not even for one night?”

Charles was tempted. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't, even setting aside any consideration of what his body would be capable of now. Erik would just walk away again, return to his war, his anger, his pain, and Charles would be left to pick up the pieces again. “I can't. I just can't. Too much has changed.”

Most would have seen Erik's expression as stoic, impassive, but Charles could see that behind the mask, Erik was crushed. He stared at Charles, pale eyes blank and bleak, then he lunged forward and buried his hands in Charles' hair, holding him fast, then his lips crashed down on Charles' with bruising force, full of desperate fury.

And God help him, Charles yielded, let Erik plunder his lips, his jaw, his throat.

After an eternal minute, Erik paused, let one hand fall from Charles' hair. “Don't tell me you don't want me as much as I want you,” he said, his breath hot against Charles' neck. “I know you're as hard for me as--” Erik's voice faltered, stopped.

Charles knew instantly where Erik's free hand had gone.

“Charles? You really don't--?”

Fuck. This really wasn't how this was supposed to have gone. And of all the ways Erik might have learned what that bullet had cost Charles, this had to be the worst. He glanced down, saw Erik's hand exactly where he'd feared, cupping his cock.

He saw Erik's fingers squeeze, though he felt nothing, then he looked back up, saw incomprehension in Erik's luminous eyes. “Charles?” His fingers came free of Charles' hair and he leaned back, putting a small measure of distance between them.

Before Erik could pull away completely, Charles covered the hand on his cock with his own, gripping Erik's wrist firmly, pinning it in place. “This isn't how I wanted you to find out.” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “To be honest, I didn't want you to find out at all. But you would have, eventually, so maybe this is better.”

Erik's confusion was a tangible thing, but he remained silent.

Charles loosened his grip, stroked the inside of Erik's wrist with his thumb. “I do still want you,” he said softly. “I suspect I always will.”

“Then why all the mystery?” _And why does your cock tell a different story?_

Charles sighed, knowing there was no gentle way to deliver the news. “I'm paralyzed, Erik,” he said.

Erik frowned. “Paralyzed?”

Charles nodded. “From the waist down.”

“When? How?”

Charles said nothing, just held Erik's gaze.

Comprehension dawned, horror spreading across Erik's fine features. “No. No. Tell me it wasn't.” He was practically begging. “Charles, please tell me it wasn't me who did this.”

“I can't.” Charles' voice was gentle.

“How can you not hate me?” Erik pulled his hand free of Charles' grip, buried his face in his hands.

“I don't know,” Charles admitted. “I have tried. It would be far easier if I could hate you. But I don't. God help me, I don't.”

Erik's guilt and grief were nearly crushing, as Charles had known they would be. “Erik. Look at me. Erik.”

“I can't.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.” Charles fairly bellowed it.

Erik met his gaze.

“What do you see?”

Silence.

“What do you see? Do you see me? Or do you just see the damned bullet?”

“I don't – How can I not see what I did to you? Mein Gott, I paralyzed you. I paralyzed you.”

“You did. But is that all you see?”

Erik stared at Charles for a long minute, slowly shook his head. “Are you asking if I still see you for you?” He leaned forward, took Charles' hand. “Always. That's why I came back. No matter how far apart or beliefs, you're still the most maddening, intoxicating, beautiful man I've ever known. I know you blame me for what happened, and I don't know if you can ever forgive me--”

“It's not about blame, Erik. Or about forgiveness.”

“What?”

“I don't blame you. I know you didn't intend to hurt me. But you did, and I have to live with the consequences. I'm still learning to deal with this, and believe me, there are some days I really, really want to hate you.”

“You should.”

“A debate for another time.” He squeezed Erik's hand. “Forgiveness is a slipperier slope. I don't know if I'm ready to forgive you yet, at least not entirely.”

“I can live with that.”

“But I need you to know something. No matter how angry I am, no matter how much I might want to hate you, or at least deck you, I can't, because I still love you.”

Erik seemed to stop breathing.

“Did you hear me?”

No response. Erik wasn't even blinking.

“Erik? Say something.”

But Erik was much more a man of action than words. He seized Charles' shoulders, kissed him roughly.

God, yes!

Charles hands fisted in the soft cotton of Erik's shirt, holding him, needing him, refusing to let him go again.

Yet eventually they still had to part. They stared at each other across the short distance. “This still won't solve anything,” Erik said quietly.

“I know. Ask me if I care.”

The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Do you?”

“Not in the slightest. Now kiss me again.”

Erik did, more gently this time, tender and full of promise and hot as hell, leaving Charles aching with need despite his cock not being on the same page.

“Erik. Help me onto the floor. Now.”

“Wouldn't your bed be more comfortable?”

“Yes. Too far away. Need you now.” Charles fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, clumsy in his impatience.

Erik undid the metal buttons of his shirt without touching them. Showoff. He cast the shirt aside, toed off his shoes, peeled those well-worn jeans down his long legs. Damn but he was gorgeous.

“Get over here.”

Erik closed the small distance between them. His cock was impressive as ever, and Charles wrapped his hand around it. “Hello, old friend. It's been a while.”

Erik had gone motionless. “Charles. Unless you want this to be over before it begins, move your hand.”

Charles let go.

“You said something about the floor?”

“Yeah. Take the blanket off the back of the couch and spread it out.” He waited while Erik did so. “Now pick me up.”

Erik approached cautiously. “I won't hurt you?”

“The bones have mended, love.”

A fresh flash of guilt from Erik.

“Stop that. You can beat yourself up all you want later. I will not tolerate it now,”

“But--”

“Not now, Erik. I will not have you feeling sorry for me.” Not when he still didn't know how this would work. If it would work. Yeah, he'd read those pamphlets that swore he could still have a meaningful sex life, but there was a big difference between theoretical knowledge and practical. “I do not want your pity.”

“And you shan't have it. It is not pity to regret the consequences of my actions, which I will to my dying day.”

“Fair enough.”

“So how do we do this?”

“One arm under my knees, the other behind my back.”

Erik lifted him, scarcely seeming to notice the weight, and settled him on the blanket, stealing a kiss as he did so.

Charles arranged his legs in front of him, trying to quell the nervousness gathering in his belly.

Erik sank to his knees, brushed his fingers across Charles' cheekbone. “You're beautiful.”

Charles felt himself blush. “I'm not.” Especially not now.

Erik sensed where his thoughts were heading. “You are. Always have been. Always will be.” His hand slid down Charles' chest, lingered just above the waistband of his trousers, right on the edge of sensation and nothingness. “Let me prove it to you.” He pulled Charles into his arms, buried his face on the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Charles shuddered as Erik's stubbled jaw scraped over his skin.

“Can we take these off?” Erik's fingers slid lower, into the void.

Charles hesitated, suddenly unsure. Was he ready for this? Finally, he nodded. “I won't be able to feel anything you do,” he warned softly.

“I need to see you,” Erik said, equally quiet. “Please”

And that settled it. Charles propped himself up on his elbows so he could watch as Erik worked his trousers off his legs.

Charles waited uneasily as Erik appraised his legs. He didn't think they'd changed that much, not yet, but he was hardly unbiased.

“You're beautiful,” Erik said moments later. “If I didn't know--” His hand slid from Charles' knee up toward his hip. “You really can't feel this?”

“Not a bit of it,” Charles affirmed.

“How far up?” Erik's voice threatened to break.

Charles fought to keep his own voice even, his tone verging on clinical. He traced a line across his midsection, roughly an inch above his navel. “Nothing past here.” It wasn't a smooth line, more a zigzag band of patchy sensation, but close enough.

“Nothing?” Charles could almost feel Erik's gaze on his cock. Almost.

“Nothing,” Charles repeated as another wave of regret poured off Erik. “And don't you dare feel sorry for me,” he said, a little more vehement than intended. ”We'll make this good.”

“How?”

“They say the brain rewires itself,” Charles explained, “though I haven't tested that theory yet.”

“So we'll test it together.”

“We will, but not yet. Lie back. There are some things I've been wanting to do to you for a very long time.”

Erik looked mildly puzzled, but he stretched out on the blanket and folded his hands over his stomach.

Charles levered himself up onto his hip, facing Erik, taking a moment to study the man's body. He was lean as ever, almost too lean, years of deprivation having imprinted themselves upon his flesh. His muscles were well-defined, but with no fat to soften the edges.

And there were many edges. If anything about him had ever been soft, it had been burned away by the refiner's fire. Charles knew there was still good in him, but it was hidden by knife-edged steel.

He leaned over, kissed him with savage hunger. He would not be gentle, not now, not yet. This wasn't quite punishment, wasn't quite penance. Call it a retribution of sorts. He was still angry at Erik, not yet ready to forgive on any but the most basic of levels. Erik had taken his sister, abandoned him on that beach, paralyzed him for life. Paralyzed him. Damned right he was bloody well angry.

He bit and sucked and scratched at Erik's shoulders, his chest, his throat, everywhere he could reach, marking him, wanting the visible reminder: Charles was here.

Erik endured the pain stoically, no doubt believing he deserved it, and it clearly wasn't having a negative effect on his cock, which was half-hard, twitching with every nip, every scratch. Charles took it in his hand, squeezed hard enough to make Erik wince even as a soft moan escaped his throat.

He jerked Erik off roughly, no finesse. Erik's eyes were closed tight, his lips compressed in a tight line, his hands dug into the blankets; only the groaning low in his throat told Charles he liked this, the pleasure-in-pain, the pain-in-pleasure.

Charles' other hand closed on Erik's balls, again with no gentleness, his nails digging into the velvety surface.

Erik came with a soft cry, shooting come all over his belly and Charles' hand. Charles sighed, started to reach for a corner of the blanket, then Erik's shirt floated over by its buttons. “Use this,” Erik said, sounding dazed.

Charles wiped them both off. “Roll over,” he said.

Erik complied, shifting onto his stomach to display his oh-so-firm arse, dusted lightly with downy ginger hair. Lovely.

That's when Charles realized there was something he needed and didn't have, and it wasn't like he could run upstairs after it. Damn.

Erik noticed his hesitation, smirked, then a miniature pot of Vaseline floated out of his jeans pocket and over to Charles. “This what you're looking for?”

Damned cheeky bastard. “Yes, damn you.” He brought the flat of his hand down on Erik's arse hard enough to make his palm sting. It felt good enough that he did it again. And again. And again, until Erik's arse was glowing pinkly. Charles set his hand on one rosy cheek and squeezed.

Erik hissed. “Scheiße.”

Charles smiled, took the tiny jar, swiped out a blob of the thick grease, pressed his finger against Erik's hole, slid inside.

Erik groaned, soft and low.

Charles worked him open enough to take a second finger, then a third, then began finger-fucking him in earnest, until Erik was shuddering and moaning. “More,” Erik said, half demand, half plea.

“Unless you managed to hide a dildo in those jeans, this is the best I can do.” A bit waspish, but damnit, Erik was the reason he couldn't fuck him through the floor.

Just for a moment, Erik looked stricken. Then thoughtful. Then determined. Charles heard a soft clinking coming from the vicinity of his desk, then a shiny metal dildo floated into his hand. “What did you make this from?”

“That pen set.”

“Erik, those were three-hundred-dollar pens.”

“So now you've got a six-hundred-dollar dildo. Far better use of both the money and the metal.”

Charles almost laughed. Almost. Much of his anger dissipated, at least for the moment, but none of his lust. Erik's hole beckoned, loosened and glistening, begging for the dildo in his hand.

Erik himself didn't beg, just gave Charles a look that said, “Can we get on with this?”

Charles obliged him, greasing the dildo and sliding it deep inside. Erik stiffened as the metal slid well past the depth Charles' fingers had managed, then he relaxed against the blanket.

Charles took his time. He still wasn't gentle, just slow and thorough, driving deep into Erik's arse until Erik was a sobbing, quivering mess.

“Don't think – I can – take much more,” Erik gasped as he writhed against the blanket.

“You can sense the metal. Line it up with your prostate, and I'll do the rest.” Charles felt the angle of the dildo shift a little, and he began pounding mercilessly on the target Erik had aimed at.

Erik gave a strangled cry.

Charles drove the dildo home – once, twice, thrice more, and then Erik was coming again, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream.

Charles removed the dildo, set it aside.

Erik slumped against the blanket, boneless, looking utterly wrecked.

Charles lay back, satisfied. Erik would feel the marks he'd left for days. If Charles got nothing more out of this night, he would have that. And that would be enough.

Erik turned his face toward Charles, eyes still a little glassy, a sated smile on his lips. “What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“You just got me off twice, but I haven't even touched you.”

“I said maybe later.”

“That was a while ago.”

Charles glanced away. He'd taken a surprising amount of pleasure from fucking Erik by proxy, and he was content. He was no longer sure he was ready to experiment, to maybe discover there were some things his body was simply no longer capable of, no matter what those glowing pamphlets claimed.

Erik covered Charles hand with his own. “I know I can never undo what I've done, but at least let me do this for you.”

Something in Erik's touch made Charles crave more, and he nodded. “All right.”

Erik rose to his knees, the movement fluid and graceful in a way Charles never could have duplicated, not even before. The soft lamplight cast him in shadow, blunted his hard edges, as he gazed down at Charles. “Mein Gott, you are so beautiful,” he said.

Charles knew his blush descended well below his face.

“The more so because you don't see it.”

Charles looked down at himself, shook his head. He'd never considered himself unattractive, but beautiful? Never. Especially now.

Erik must have sensed where his thoughts were heading. “Charles, didn't you yourself just tell me this,” he set his hand on Charles' knee, “didn't change who you are? That you're still the same man, paralysis or no?”

Charles hated having his words thrown back in his face. Especially when the thrower had a point.

“You were beautiful before. You're beautiful now. And I'm going to show you how beautiful you are to me.” The hand on Charles' knee slid upward over his hip, found intact nerve pathways just below his ribs.

Charles gasped.

Erik grinned.

Charles had been unprepared for the intensity of the sensation. His ribs? And it wasn't like being tickled. No, it was the kind of feeling he would have once said went straight to his cock, except this one had gone straight to his brain.

Encouraged, Erik slid his hand higher, over Charles' chest, brushed over his left nipple.

Charles was a dead man if this kept up.

And Erik showed no sign of stopping.

He pinched Charles' nipple between his fingertips, bent and took the other in his mouth, sucking with a gentle, delicious pressure.

Charles arched into the contact.

Erik continued to lavish attention on Charles' nipples, until Charles was writhing beneath him, nerve endings on fire, hovering on the brink.

Then Erik backed off.

Charles almost cried.

Then Erik was kissing his way up over Charles' collarbone and onto his throat. Charles shivered, still on the brink.

Erik kissed along his jaw, nibbled delicately at his earlobe, his breath warm against Charles' ear.

Charles shuddered but didn't quite fall.

The nibbles became a nip, hard enough to sting.

Hard enough to push him over, send him careering down into a whirling spiral of pleasure. He cried out, keening as his body shuddered and shook.

Erik smirked. “You're welcome.” Then he lay back on the blanket and gathered Charles into his arms.

Charles pillowed his head on Erik's shoulder. “Will you stay the night?”

Erik hesitated.

“Give me at least that much of you. I know you won't stay, and I won't ask you to. I know you have your war to wage, your battles to fight. Just let me have tonight.”

“You can have tonight, and other nights as I can. I'll always come back for you.”

Charles woke back in his own bed, alone, the space next to him still warm and smelling faintly of Erik.

~xXx~

Erik returned three more times in the next seven months. Then the president was shot, and Erik was arrested.

Only pouring himself into his plans for the school kept Charles from descending into the madness of loss and grief and anger.

Two years later the nascent school shut its doors, and there was nothing to stop Charles' headlong fall.

It would be seven long years before he gave a damn again.


End file.
